An Artful Ascension
by Krapelan
Summary: Act I: Butch; Butch thought his life was simple, until meeting one sickly puppy inside a dumpster. Dodger reminisces about Butch to Oliver. The story begins.


_"How'd ya manage ta do that, kid?"_

_"I.. I don't know."_

_"You know what? I think I gotta name for ya- yeah, yeah. I do."_

_"You.. you do? My mama never gave me one..."_

_"Yeah. I gotta name for ya, kid. **Dodger**. Ya got spunk, 'n I think It suits dat."_

* * *

**1985 Autumn Act I: Butch**

**_Look Before You Leap!_**

The bowels of New York City weren't pretty, and they sure were not friendly. While many dogs would steer clear of the 'Underground', specifically being the metros and tunnels of the famed city, there were the vicious gutsy ones that controlled them and often resided within them. These types of dog-formed gangs were dangerous, hateful, and most of all, the true ugly face of New York City's nightlife.

Butch, an Italian Shepherd, had lived here all of his life and absolutely loved it. Nothing better than working for what you've earned, he often told himself. His favorite red bandana had been a quick scheme he devised over a human family down in Brooklyn. Feigning being a stray looking for a home and getting a sweet accessory with it proved all that he needed to get out of there. Never lost it since, and never hated it. He's earned it. However, the city wasn't friendly to pampered dogs who had no collar around their neck, like he had tried to impersonate once, and welcomed the roughneck solo artists looking to make their greatest piece on the local vendor. Butch licked his lips, still tasting the salted pretzel he snagged a few short hours ago. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to stop his lingering hunger for the night.

The coming-of-age sire smirked as the three other metro roaming dogs in front of him laughed as they told their greatest heists and recent exploits.

"Then- I grabbed his boot an' dat was dat! All I hatta' do was book it 'round tha corner, 'n it was history!" The white terrier laughed, grime and dirt ruining his never seen before perfectly white fur.

"Tells us more, Richie! Tells us more!" The shaggy dog to his left cackled, sounding like a hyena. The slim golden retriever to his right chuckled, eye crinkling. His left eye had been sown shut violently, and judging by the botched job and his lack of wanting to explain his puppyhood, it must've been without consent.

Richie chuckled, using a paw to wipe at the tile they were all sitting on, next to the rails. "Butch ova' here hasn't said a word all night. Ain't that right, Butchie?"

Butch grunted, showcasing a glossy row of sharp teeth and fangs at them. "Nothin' ta note."

"You note nothin', man! Come on, ya gotta have _somethin'_ that's interestin'." The shaggy dog reasoned. It was the same ritual with these two. Richie tells a good story, and then gets Quartz to start yapping at him about some imaginary story he never had. Screws watches from the side, never prodding or poking, but never stopping it. It was a cycle as old as time, and Butch couldn't change it.

Quartz continued his yapping. "Pretty please? You gotta have somethin', Butch!"

On any other day, he would've angrily snorted and gotten Quartz to shut his trap. Today wasn't like those days, rather. Like a water droplet hitting your nose on a sunny day, this was a rare occurrence and an exception to the norm. Butch smacked his lips, the ghostly taste of the pretzel still in the back of his throat. "Alright, if it shuts ya up for a few weeks."

The shaggy dog immediately stopped his yapping, sitting and looking Butch dead in the eye while Richie leaned in, invested almost immediately. Screws turned his head all the way over to Butch.

"Boutta few days ago, I found a vendor. Louie, he called hisself. Sells hot dogs 'n sausages in Manhattan, around Greenwich," Butch started. Quartz' tongue flopped out in eagerness, and Richie cocked his ear noticeably, urging him to go on. "Gave 'im tha NYC Special. Looped through tha legs, takin' tha sausages 'n I booked it outta there. Too fat ta chase me."

He smiled as he saw the building suspense for the three spectators drop instantly in disappointment. "Man, you really don't got nothin', do's ya?" Quartz dejectedly said.

"Story sucked, bro." Richie grunted, looking bemused. "At least try ta make it interestin'."

Screws blinked, his left eye twitching underneath the sown lid. "I thought you actually had somethin'," he said in a small grunt.

"Everyone's a critic," Butch closed, getting up to stretch. "Gotta start lookin' fa dinner," he yawned. Finishing his nightly stretch, he started his way for the moldy staircase a minute's jog away.

"Have fun widdat," Richie called out after him, before quickly shutting Butch out to continue his over-the-top stories to a gullible Quartz and a careless Screws.

The jog was a good wake up pill for the shepherd, who had felt sleepy after his small rest with his friends. It allowed him to clear his mind and get his blood pumping, something he always needed before doing anything, really. Before he knew it, the staircase was in his sights, guarded by two teenager dobermans.

"Butch," The pair growled out to the passing dog. The two were designated by the Sweepers, their gang, to guard this metro entrance.

"Stay safe, you two's." Butch nodded towards them. "Bein' Trident's lapdog once a day keeps tha starvin' away, heh boys?"

"Keep your mouth shut, Butch." The left one growled out viciously, not at all phasing Butch. Offering nothing but a smile in return, he jogged right by them, bounding into the bustling nightlife of New York City.

Butch never would have guessed this routine decision would be a start of his life changing rapidly.

* * *

Butch always ignored puppies. No if's, and's or but's about it. He'd even take their poorly scavenged food and tell them to try harder. He doesn't know if any had died because of his heartless thievery. He considered himself a tough reminder to the new kids that the world ain't fair, and there were many more like him awaiting them to stupidly walk in his turf.

He hit the sidewalks of an unnamed street, not bothered at all by a single leaf, black as the night thanks to no light, swinging by him. It was as typical as ever, until he heard the shuffling of garbage to his left, into an alleyway he had no business looking at. He definitely didn't have any business with looking at what was in the alleyway, as that was suicide in most cases, and he definitely didn't have a sudden metaphorical spike hit his heart.

Butch had denied healthy pups their taken goods, but never one that was so.. sick. Weak looking. The poor pup must've ate the wrong type of garbage. Especially in a dumpster.

The off-white terrier puppy had a few brown spots on him, alongside a scruffy snout and a brown-topped head. He couldn't tell if it was from the fur color or the garbage he had been swimming in for the few past hours. The pup moaned in discomfort, whimpering as a few strange sneezes escaped his snout. Butch knew what he had to do.

"Mama.." The kid muttered, tearing at Butch's regularly stone-cold heart strings. However, he wasn't _that_ suddenly afflicted with the case of puppy sympathy syndrome.

Butch responded with a gruffness to his voice. "I ain't cha mudda, kid." Butch had a very great way with words.

The puppy gave no answer, only burying his snout deeper into the bundle of dirty newspapers he pathetically attempted to move around to make a bed. Butch snorted, head cocking as he hopped up on the dumpster to sniff the kid. He definitely had a weird stench coming off him. Whatever the kid ate was not supposed to be eaten. He huffed as he gingerly moved his mouth over the back of the kid's neck.

Clumsily, he lightly pressed his sharp teeth into the nape, slowly scraping the puppy up. The kid moaned in slightly discomfort, but once he was secured semi-comfortably in his grasp, he hopped down from the dumpster and headed off towards his den. He had no idea how to help the puppy, but he was going to at least try. Everyone in the city deserves a fair opportunity to be swallowed up by it.

"Quiet down, kid. We don't want company." Butch's voice muffled, but his intent clear all the same; Butch would make sure this kid had at least a chance.

His paws scrapped against the sidewalk as he hopped over chained fences behind alleyways, surfed taxis down intersections and finally moved a discarded cardboard box from hiding a hole in the wall of a red, square building. The distant honking of cars and bright lights became muffled as he crawled through the small space, the puppy still in his grasp.

A light at the end of the black crawl space greeted Butch, invigorating him to quicken his crawl. They reached the exit, finally popping into a small, dug out room. A bunch of dirty, old quilts and blankets stashed neatly in the corner greeted him. In the center, a single candle that was about half melted dimly lit the small room. He plopped the puppy down onto his bed of dirty quilts and blankets.

He then crawled towards the entry of the crawl space and awkwardly dragged the cardboard box back over it, letting a small corner exposed to let the chilly air ventilate their room. Crawling back, he made his way over to the sick puppy, who was whimpering.

"Alright kid, whaddya want?" Butch sat, staring down at the puppy.

"Food..." He croaked in response, then sneezing.

"Food, food, food." Butch muttered. He stood up, pacing towards the crawl space. "Stay 'dere, we don't need cha attractin' nobody."

"Okay," the puppy whimpered. Butch's natural scowl softened briefly, eyes blinking before he disappeared into the crawl space. The kid had to have a chance.

Butch would make sure.

* * *

**1989 Spring**

_**Where'd You Learn That, Big Brother?**_

It had been another bustling day in New York City. Dodger had his fun snagging sausages off Old Louie, then stealing some flashy sunglasses off of another vendor a street down, dipping through the boroughs of New York and then swinging by Times Square on his way to meet Oliver at the Foxworth Residence. Car surfing in the street, hopping off on the sidewalk, and then brushing his way through the row of bushes covering the side of the residence, he hopped up on the open window's sill.

With relative ease of pushing the window further up with his snout, he slid in and landed on the kitchen floor. Dodger gave a smug grin to no one in particular, looking back up at the window. Grabbing his sunglasses, he placed them on top his head as he strutted into the main staircase, making his way with a rhythm upstairs as a clueless Winston walked by below.

Oliver had been enjoying his catnap, only to bustle to sudden consciousness when he saw Dodger slide into Jenny's room. "Dodger!" Oliver mewled happily, stretching before jumping down from the plush pillow on the window sill to meet his surrogate big brother.

"Hold tha applause, I know, I know. I'm too good at this whole 'gettin' in' thing," Dodger announced. Oliver rolled his eyes but nonetheless rubbed his head against Dodger's leg.

"It's been too long!" Oliver meowed.

"I missed ya too, kid. Now relax before ya ruin my summer coat."

Oliver stopped his greeting, kicking his head up at Dodger. "How'd you get in?"

Dodger cocked his head towards the door way, smiling deviously. "Tha kitchen's got a nice window. Never noticed it?"

Oliver smirked, shaking his head. He backed away from Dodger, standing a bit taller since he had grown, clearly trying to flash it off to Dodger. He caught the drift, but kept it nonchalant as he pretended to clean his sunglasses. "Anythin' different with you, kid?"

Oliver stood up even taller, smiling proudly at him. Dodger kept his game going.

"You.. learned how ta sit taller," he intentionally poorly guessed.

"No, you silly! I got taller! Bigger!" Oliver said, frowning.

"Wouldn't have noticed," Dodger said.

"Quit lying! Anyways, what brings you here, Dodger?" Oliver questioned, settling back down on the window sill pillow.

Dodger puffed his chest, strutting over to the wall, looking up at Oliver. "Just stoppin' by ta see tha only cat I can tolerate." He gave a goofy grin at the smiling tomcat.

Oliver blinked, smile fading slowly before he shook his head. He had been curious, after all. "Say, Dodger. Speaking of learning.. where did you learn how to be a street dog? Or where to sing? Or where to play the piano?"

"Learned how ta be a street dog from an old friend, and tha piano singin' from an even older friend." Dodger replied wistfully. This got a strange scrunched look on Oliver's face as Dodger replied.

"That's it? Who are these 'old friends'?"

"That," Dodger adjusted his red bandana. "Is a story for anotha' day, Ollie."

Oliver readjusted himself, yawning. "I got all the time in the world right now, Dodge. At least tell me about one of them!"

Dodger smiled, albeit a melancholic one. "Alright.. alright, ya got me. I'll tell ya. First one was Butch. I'll get into dat in a few. Ya got any water around here? It's gonna be a long story, kiddo."


End file.
